


Old School

by likeadeuce



Category: Astonishing X-Men, Marvel, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-07
Updated: 2010-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment between Wolverine and Cyclops.  Features nostalgia and beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old School

After all of the lovers and mentors who have rummaged around in his mind, after all the intense and meaningful late night talks with Hank, Scott wonders why, sometimes, the only person who seems to know what he's thinking is Logan.

"Beer?"

Scott slumps down in the kitchen chair. "God, yes."

Logan reaches in the back of the fridge and tosses a bottle of something Scott's never seen. There's a moose on the label. You can't buy this in the States, and Scott's train of thought runs to motorcycles and north of the border beer runs. He grips his hand around the cold, water beaded surface, and holds the neck out to Logan. "You know what gas costs these days?"

Metal flicks through skin, and Logan pops the top. "Ahh, I filled her back up."

"You took _my_ bike?"

Logan shrugs and slouches down at the other side of the table. "Somebody ought to keep her running." He flicks the cap from his own drink and sucks it down. Scott does the same. It tastes cold and sharp.

Emma likes chardonnay.

"So," says Logan. "It's past your bedtime. You avoiding?"

"Who? Me?" He sets down the bottle. "I don't avoid. I repress."

"Right," Logan answers. "What was I thinking?"

"So," says Scott.

"So." Logan puts down the beer and cracks his knuckles. There's still the slightest strip of red (a different red) where the claw went back in. Scott watches as it fades into the background. Logan stretches his elbows above his head -- always restless, always moving -- and suddenly he breaks into a laugh. "That thing with the Sentinel, man. . ." He mimes ripping off a visor, growls, "Get off my lawn! That was badass."

Scott remembers the way it felt, the surge of pure force. "Yeah." He sips the beer, wipes his mouth. "I guess that was a little badass."

"A little?" Logan whistles. "That was classic, man. It was old school."

"Old school," Scott echoes. "Speaking of old school. You and Pete --" He lifts his arm, starts to mime a throw. At the same time, they say, "Fastballlll special." They both laugh, and Scott says, "Classic."

"Yeah." Logan's thumb scrapes down, picking at the label on his bottle -- isn't that supposed to be some kind of psychological signifier? Scott can't remember. He lifts his own drink, and swigs a mouthful. Logan says, "It used to drive you crazy when we did that."

Decades of carefully practiced self-control are all that keep Scott from spitting beer onto the table. As it is, he manages to turn the gag into a cough, as he chokes out, "What?"

Logan's brow furrows. "The fastball. You used to hate it."

"Oh. Right." Moments like this, Scott deeply appreciates the people in his life who can't read his mind. Then he thinks about Logan's words, trying to push that far back in his memory. "Did I?"

"So you said. 'Specially if you didn't know it was coming." A shrug. A swig. "Teamwork and shit."

"Yeah. I guess I said that." Scott looks down at the table, away from his friend. "Maybe I lied."


End file.
